FLASH POINT (Thomas Blume Book 6) Page 10

  Breathe.

  “Rey?”

  “Just a second. I’ve almost got it. There.”

  Overhead a series of brilliant lights flickered and popped into existence, bathing the room in a blinding white glare. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust from the darkness of the tunnel above, but when they did, my breath caught in my throat.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said,” Rey replied absently.

  He stood near the wall, next to the light switch of a large room.

  A war room.

  The concrete space was maybe thirty feet long and half that wide, an old boiler room judging by the temperature and the location. But most of the maintenance equipment had been replaced, moved aside for the essential equipment needed to run a modern criminal empire.

  Three large metal cages clung to one wall. They contained no carnivorous beasts, but something far more dangerous. Stacked neatly at the back of each was an eclectic mix of pistols, and shotguns of every size and caliber imaginable. Seemingly cobbled together from personal collections or just plain stolen, some looked fifty plus years old.

  The motley collection was worn and tatty, out of date for the most part and several of the weapons had pieces missing, but the cages still contained enough firepower to give the Staten Island Motorcycle Club serious clout, or to start a small war.

  A goddam arsenal, in the right hands.

  “Hey, look at this.” Rey’s voice pulled me to the other side of the room.

  I stepped across the concrete to the opposite wall, where a series of charts and maps had been pinned to a corkboard. They were brightly colored, and I immediately recognized the outline of New York, broken into the five boroughs. In each colored segment, small icons had been pinned, one a skull and dagger, another a snake wrapped around a wheel. The final one I recognized from the bar earlier—the stenciled red face of a Pitbull snarling and surrounded by flames—The Hounds.

  This was a war map. An outline of the territories each biker gang of New York operated in.

  I quickly turned and took in the rest of the room. A stack of laptops in one corner, a workbench covered in tools in another.

  My eyes were drawn to the center of the room and a large table covered in charts and technical drawings. As I moved closer one diagram, in particular, cried out. I lifted it from the table and held the translucent map up to the light. It contained several city blocks, printed on a sheet of plastic with overlaid notes. The writing was hard to read, but the roads and street names were clear as day.

  “10th Precinct, Bleecker, Post Office, 8th Avenue.”

  I placed the map back on the table and took in the room. Guns, city maps, bulletproof vests. The SMC were kitted for Armageddon. What the hell was going on here?

  Two shoebox-sized plastic crates nestled under the table, catching my eye. One was light as a feather, and when I opened it, it became clear the contents had been removed. I unclipped the one below it however and gasped at the blocky shape inside. No bigger than a house brick, it was a mottled beige lump, nestled snugly inside a padded foam container. A set of wires and a small black device lay next to the block, unconnected. But what scared me the most was writing printed on top. Three simple letters that made my heart leap.

  RDX.

  “Jesus.”

  Finally, I turned to Rey.

  “Call it in Rey, call it in now.”

  “What, why?”

  “Because this is where they planned the bomb attack.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After fielding more questions than I had answers for, I left the Crime Scene Unit and Rey to process the bloodbath at the garage. I followed my own lead four miles north to Union City and an old New Jersey contact. A city isn’t unlike a person. They both have the marks to show and stories to tell … if you know where to look.

  It was just after 1am by the time I arrived, but from the moment I stepped into the main room of the Pole Position Gentleman’s Club, I knew what kind of place it was. Dark, smoky and with tacky rock music blasting out from unseen speakers, it was the kind of place that only the lost and the desperate would frequent. And that was the staff. The clientele wasn’t any better.

  A handful of drunks and sleazy businessmen were propping up the bar or gawking at the main performance area.

  On the stage, a woman well past her prime was grinding unenthusiastically against a pole, while green and yellow lights swirled, bathing her in an unnatural glow. Other girls milled around too, one leaned against the bar smoking a cigarette, trying to proposition the overweight executive next to her. Another girl was circulating amongst the limp crowd, trying to sell drinks and god knows what else.

  To the back of the main room I spotted the private rooms, the kind of places where, for the right money, anything goes.

  My eyes drifted right. Near the doors to the private rooms, propped up against a fire exit stood a massive man with a mocha complexion and a broad face. Hawaiian or maybe Samoan, he must have weighed three hundred pounds. Dressed all in black, his clothing failed to conceal a considerable beer gut. Low rent security for a low-rent strip club.

  “Hi honey, want a dance?” came a voice next to me, surprising me slightly. The girl standing beside me was young, maybe early twenties, but her eyes made her appear much older. She draped a hand over my shoulder, and I glanced down at her outfit almost involuntarily. She was dressed in a white shirt, open to reveal her cleavage and tied across her midriff. Below, a pleated skirt that would have made a hooker blush, barely concealed her dignity, completing the obscene school girl outfit.

  I shook my head. “Tempting, but I’m actually here on business.”

  The girl raised an eyebrow and leaned in to whisper in my ear. Her fragrance was overwhelming. Probably to mask the stench of cigarette smoke on her breath. “I’ve got all the business you need, hun. In fact, you can have a meeting with two of us at once if you want ….”

  Interrupting her sales pitch, I reached up, gently removed her hand and fixed the girl with a hard look. “I need to see Vinny. Is he in?”

  The stripper dropped the sexy act like a sack of wrenches. Beneath the heavy makeup and raggedy bleached blonde hair, she wasn’t a bad looking woman. Not spectacular, but not awful.

  “He’s in the office, honey. Take a seat at the bar; I’ll get him for you. Vinny don’t like surprises.”

  “Please hurry, I don’t have much time.”

  The girl disappeared, and I checked my watch.

  Damn.

  Pacing the club like a maniac wouldn’t help, so I chose the nearest stool at the bar. The leather was cracked and worn, and it made a slight squeak as it swiveled. I suspected the clientele weren’t very picky about the furnishings. Vinny wasn’t exactly known for his class. The bartender appeared within seconds and took my order.

  The beer arrived in a chilled glass, frost obscuring the golden nectar within. The first taste was fantastic—the perfect remedy for the day I’d had. I drained the rest quickly, not meaning to chug but unable to resist the promise. I felt that familiar yearning—the one that begged me to keep drinking to numb the emotions as much as the visions. The yearning to continue until I’d fallen asleep, or blacked out—or both. I shook my head, a silent reprimand. I couldn’t lose control. Too much was still at stake.

  A glance at my watch again. Seven hours gone already. Jesus.

  Instead of a refill, I opted to check the present company in the club to distract myself from the ticking clock. People watching is a skill that can save your life as a cop and old habits die hard. My first subject was a round, middle-aged man seated beside me. He was several beers in, demonstrated by the slight glassiness in his eyes as much as by the three empty bottles piled beside the one he was currently sipping. A pile of peanut shells sullied the counter in front of him.

  I’d stared too long. I was just about to look away, in search of a more captivating subject, when he turned sideways, mistaking my observations for interest.
/>   “Hard day?” he asked.

  “You could say that,” I said, not about to share any details.

  “Woman trouble?” he pressed. “It’s usually a woman.”

  I shrugged.

  “My wife,” the man continued. “She keeps telling me to go for the promotion, you know? But it’s not that simple. My boss, he's a real ball buster, won't give me a shot. Then when I get home Brenda is all, ‘Ohh, why haven't you spoken to Mr. Jones, why don’t you get off your ass and do something?’ So, I come here. To escape.”

  "Uh huh," I replied absently, glancing back toward the corridor where the stripper had vanished.

  “So, I come here, and I blow my cash even though I know these whores are just doing it for the money. Am I an idiot? Ah geez, I don’t know. You look like a man of the world. You think I should go for the promotion at work, you know, just to keep the old lady quiet?”

  The man’s buzzing in my ear was getting annoying. I cut a hard glance back at him, “I'm in a strip club, listening to music I can’t stand, I’m armed, and I’m drinking. You don’t want advice from me, amigo.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he shuffled back off the bar stool. “Oh, right …. I uh- I think I should be going home maybe.”

  “Probably a good idea,” I nodded, before deciding my own time at the bar was done.

  Where the hell is the woman?

  I placed my glass down and marched to the corridor. Another woman stopped me.

  “Vinny’s office?” I enquired

  “Past the bathroom,” the woman nodded towards the side of the bar where a dark doorway disappeared into the shadows. “But if he ain’t expecting you, you better watch out. Vinny doesn't like—”

  “Surprises, I know.”

  I pushed past her towards the doorway. I hadn’t seen Vinny in over five years. He might have been king of this particularly shabby castle, but I recalled his past exploits well. Too well in fact. Vinny Horowitz didn’t like surprises … and he sure as hell wouldn’t like this one.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I knocked on the door at the end of the narrow hallway. Here, away from the faux glamour of the club, things were far more utilitarian. Walls were painted a bland gray, and to my right, a maintenance closet reeked of bleach and surface detergent. A cleaner in a sleazy strip club—I could only imagine the horrors a job like that would entail.

  After a few seconds of no answer, I knocked again. A muffled voice cursed on the other side; words lost to the club music in the background. With no time for further pleasantries, I shoved the door open, stepping confidently inside.

  A small office greeted me, not much bigger than the closet outside. Drab yellow walls with peeling paint. Stacked boxes filled every corner. In the center though, was a confusing site. A battered old wooden desk, with a skinny man slumped over it. For a split second, I thought he was dead, head bowed the wood, but a long sniff told me otherwise.

  I coughed, and the man straightened.

  “Jesus Christ, Crystal! I told you no—oh shit.”

  “Bad time, Vinny?”

  Vinny Horowitz stood, bolting upright, almost knocking his chair over. A dusting of white powder flecking his black goatee beard. He’d cut the rest of the goods into fine lines on the desk in front of him. His eyes were full, frantic. Whether it was the drugs or sheer panic at seeing me, I couldn’t tell.

  “Blume! I –I was just. Um, let me clean this up.”

  I stood hands on hips regarding the skinny little weasel as he tried and failed, to hide the lines of cocaine.

  “Let me just get rid of this, and put this here and—”

  I stepped forward, grabbed Vinny by the collar and shoved him forcefully into his chair.

  “Sit.”

  He sat. I stood, towering over him. Keeping the pressure on.

  “Jesus, Blume, if I knew you were coming …”

  “You would have baked a cake? Listen, Vinny; I don’t want any of your crap. Your little piss pot operation here doesn’t concern me. Nor does your coke habit. What I do care about is information. You’re still in the business, right?”

  “I can be, for the right price,” he smirked.

  I slapped him across the face and freed my gun with my right hand. “How about a discount?”

  Vinny yelped, bringing a hand to his cheek. “Right, right. Sure, a freebie for an old pal. Whaddya need?”

  “RDX,” I said flatly. “What do you know about it?”

  “RD—what?”

  I slapped him again, to reinforce the earlier message.

  “Vinny, it’s plain and simple. You’re a rat. You hang around in the filth and have tiny balls, but like a rat, you stick your nose in places it doesn’t belong. You’re a fixer. As such, I know you are well informed of all the arms and explosives moved through the city. So, let’s try this again. What do you know about RDX?”

  “It’s um, it’s an explosive.”

  I raised my gun, made a show of racking the slide.

  “What? What! I told ya,” Vinny spat. “It’s rare. Military grade. Makes stuff go boom, what more do you want?”

  “I know it’s an explosive, Vinny. How would someone get some in this city?”

  Vinny cast his eyes down and looked at the floor, his desk. Anywhere but into mine. He fiddled with his watch, mumbled under his breath and made a show of moving some papers on his countertop. One handwritten note, in particular, he palmed closer to his body. My eyes narrowed on the paper.

  “Speak up, Vinny,” I pressed.

  “It’s um, … expensive, hard to get.”

  “Vinny …”

  He glanced up at me and straightened as a sudden confidence washed over his body.

  “You know Blume; I never liked you. Not when you were a cop, not now. You think you’re all high and mighty but you ain’t no different to me. Maybe I am a rat … but this rat has grown some balls.”

  I turned, but it was too late. A fist caught me across the jaw, sending me and my weapon flying.

  TWENTY-SIX

  My buddy, Samoan Joe from earlier, stood towering behind me, grinning. He threw another haymaker, but I ducked and drove a right hook into his gut. He huffed as the air left his lungs, but didn’t look injured. In fact, he grinned again.

  Shit.

  With a growl, he tackled me, sending both of us crashing into Vinny’s desk. The ancient structure exploded under our combined weight, sending wood splintering in all over the place. Vinny cursed loudly, scrambling out of the way.

  At the corner of my vision, something fluttered, I reached out and grabbed for it. Taking advantage of my distraction, Joe scrambled onto his hands and knees and shuffled over attempting to wrestle me to the ground with a meaty paw.

  I rolled, avoiding a thick arm and jumped back to my feet. Joe attempted to do the same, but his considerable size and weight made it much slower. As he huffed and staggered upright, I leaned over and threw a straight punch that connected with his face. He didn’t grin this time; he didn’t do much of anything except slump back to the floor in a daze, his eyes blinking erratically.

  I glanced up, Vinny stood at the back of the room scowling at the destruction. If I were a betting man, I would have guessed he was more pissed off with the loss of his cocaine than the damage to his desk…or security.

  I stepped forward to confront him. “Listen you little asshole. If you think one goon is enough to—”

  My words were cut short as another pair of massive arms came from behind and wrapped around my body, squeezing like a python trapping its prey. I glanced down and grunted, noticing the mocha skin and tribal tattoos. A strong smell of sweat and tobacco filled my nostrils. It reminded me of Joe, who was now shaking off his daze and clambering to his feet.

  I struggled against my captor, but the huge arms were a vice, holding me in place.

  “No, you listen, Blume,” Vinny hissed, stepping forward, prodding a bony finger in my chest. “You’ve been a pain in my ass ever since you were a cop. Shutting me d
own at every turn, harassing up my associates. Ruining my good name.”

  I scoffed. “We both know your name isn’t worth shit, Vinny. You’re a lowlife, always will be.”

  His punch came out of nowhere and connected with my gut, sending the air rushing from my lungs and pain bursting through my belly. He had a mean right cross for a rodent.

  “Shut up. You don’t know shit about me, but you’re going to learn,” Vinny sneered. “Boys escort Blume outside and teach him some manners. Teach him not to come back here.”

  A deep voice came from near my ear, as my captor replied, “Sure thing, Mr. Horowitz.”

  “This is a stupid move, Vinny. Even for you. I’ll be back,” I said.

  “Maybe, but since you ain’t a cop no more, I don’t have to worry about that,” Vinny replied, leaning into my face. “I can do whatever I want. And what I want is to make sure you never get close to me or my business, ever again.”

  “That’s a nice theory, Vinny. There’s just one problem with that,” I coughed. “I’m already close to you.”

  With my torso held firmly by my mystery captor, I lifted both legs off the ground and kicked hard towards Vinny’s head. Caught off guard, my heels connected with his nose in a sickening crunch. He screamed and stumbled back across the office, clutching his face.

  I was about to twist and address the enormous pair of arms gripping my chest when a growl came from the floor. My buddy, Joe had recovered and upon seeing his boss flying across the office a mask of anger fell across his features. The man turned his face to me and snarled.

  “Uh oh.”

  Joe dropped his head down and charged at me like a raging bull. My captor, utterly unaware of the impending impact held me tight.

  “No, wait!”

  The blow hit like a freight train, sending all three of us hurtling backward. We crashed through the office door, which burst like an overstuffed piñata, and tumbled out of the hallway falling into a heap on the sticky carpet of the main lounge.

  A punch came flying at my face. I rolled and kicked out, connecting with something mushy, earning a yelp in response.